


Let's go Dancing

by mothjons



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ceilidh, Dancing, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Jon and Martin experience some 'authentic Scottish culture', Jon and Martin experience the terrifying ordeal of being twirled, M/M, Scottish Honeymoon, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:54:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26046094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothjons/pseuds/mothjons
Summary: Jon and Martin go to a Ceilidh, and experience some of the perks of living in Scotland“A ceilidh,” said Martin with a grin. “That’d be fun, right?”“A ceilidh?” echoed Jon.“It’s a dance,” said Martin, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Scottish dancing – you know, with the spinning, and bagpipes and fiddles.”Jon wrinkled his brow. “I know what a ceilidh is, Martin. I just – why did you take a photo?”“To show you,” he said simply. “It’d be fun. C’mon, Jon – we can’t stay holed up in the cottage forever.”“We should’ve,” muttered Jon. “Bloody freezing out here.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 39
Kudos: 161





	Let's go Dancing

**Author's Note:**

> Look - there are some cons to Scotland; the weather, the food, the weather, and the weather. But! Going to a Ceilidh makes up for all of that, and it is one of the best ways to spend a night! And Jon and Martin deserve to have a fun time!  
> Translations for Gaelic words and Scottish phrases will be in the end notes!

Martin had been the one to see the flyer.

Pinned against cork, fluttering in the wind, and looking deceptively unimposing. They had been waiting for the bus, shopping bags in hand, and sheltering themselves away from the drookit weather, when Martin, bored of standing, had gone over to look.

Jon had stayed under the glass awning of the bus station, content to remain just damp – and not, as Martin now was, absolutely soaked through. When he had returned, curls dripping with rain, he had triumphantly held up his phone screen. On it was a photo of a poster; an illustration of a bagpipe, overlaid a tartan pattern – with yellow bubble font that announced:

“A ceilidh,” said Martin with a grin. “That’d be fun, right?”

“A ceilidh?” echoed Jon.

“It’s a dance,” said Martin, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Scottish dancing – you know, with the spinning, and bagpipes and fiddles.”

Jon wrinkled his brow. “I know what a ceilidh is, Martin. I just – why did you take a photo?”

“To show you,” he said simply. “It’d be fun. C’mon, Jon – we can’t stay holed up in the cottage forever.”

“We should’ve,” muttered Jon. “Bloody freezing out here.”

Martin let out a breathy laugh, squeezing himself down beside Jon on the narrow bench. Instinctively, Jon melted against him. Martin held out his hand, and Jon took it, intertwining their fingers together. His hand was ice cold, and damp from the rain – but it was still Martin, and thus, still pleasant.

“Don’t you want to experience some _authentic Scottish culture_?” teased Martin, attempting to add a slight northern drawl to his accent.

Jon pointed at the waterfall that was now the bus stop; the water was coming down in sheets all around them like a glasshouse. “I’m pretty sure we’re sitting in Scottish culture right now, Martin.”

Martin hummed. “Alright, alright. Think about it, though? We’ve got a few days to decide.”

“No promises.”

* * *

“What am I meant to wear?” asked Jon, looking up from the open drawer before him, holding two shirts in either hand.

“A kilt, I think,” said Martin, peering his head around the bathroom doorway.

“Well, I appear to have forgotten to pack mine,” said Jon, in a monotonous deadpan. “I suppose I can’t go then.”

Martin laughed, rolling his eyes. “Just wear something comfortable - but fancy.” He vanished back into the bathroom, but continued to talk. “I don’t see why you suddenly now care about correct attire – you were turning up to work in all kinds of dress code violations before the Unknowing.”

“Being kidnapped does that to you,” replied Jon, which earned a warning ‘hey’ from Martin. He looked down at the clothes in his hand, and decided to settle on a loose green button up, and his black slacks.

Martin emerged from the bathroom, smelling gently of aftershave. He was dressed in a similar fashion – wearing a warm orange shirt, one that Jon remembered seeing around the archives before.

“You, uh – you look very nice,” said Jon, taking a step closer, and flattening down Martin’s collar. It hadn’t needed a touch up; Jon just liked being able to touch Martin. He grinned, cupping Jon’s elbow in his hand.

“You look very nice, too,” he said, his cheeks now a warm pink. “I like this shirt.”

Jon hummed, looking down at it. He flicked an imaginary speck of dust away. “Thank you. I, uh – I think it might’ve belonged to Georgie, actually.”

Martin laughed, a beautiful warm melodic sound that made the corners of Jon’s mouth twitch upwards. “Well, it suits you – a lot.”

Jon loved hearing Martin laugh. It had taken a few weeks of thawing from the Lonely for the sound to come back – Jon still remembered it, hearing it again for the first time in too long. Jon had been cooking them dinner; grabbing something out of the cupboard, and forgetting to close it. He and Martin had been bickering about something pointless – which, and neither would admit, was quite a wonderful thing to argue about. Jon had rolled his eyes in response to whatever Martin had just countered with, and turned around and smacked his head right into the cupboard door.

Martin’s laugh had been a sudden one, a quick exhalation of amusement. But then Jon had turned around, with a startled scowl, and the laughter turned into a fit of giggles. Martin’s laugh was contagious, a fact Jon had almost forgotten over their time apart, and he had found himself laughing alongside him, as Martin pressed a bag of frozen peas against his head.

After that, Martin started laughing more and more – each shake of his shoulders freeing himself from the fading tendrils of the Lonely.

Jon smiled at the compliment, reaching upwards to kiss Martin. He felt Martin’s smile against his lips, a hand coming up to cup the nape of his neck. He hummed into it, deepening it for a moment before pulling back.

“C’mon,” said Martin, taking Jon’s hand. “I don’t want to be late.”

* * *

The Ceilidh was being held at the church hall – the centre point of the wee nearby village. There was a small queue outside, a few familiar faces; Addison, who worked at the fishmongers, and David, who manned the corner shop. They exchanged familial waves as they saw each other.

There were quite a few flashes of tartan kilts; blues, greens, purples and reds. It was mainly the older men in the village who adorned one, and they were dressed in the full attire – a sporran hanging on their hips, and a sgian-dubh tucked into their socks.

Jon looked down at his shirt, and felt entirely underdressed. A majority of the villagers were just dressed in everyday clothing, just a touch fancier – a ceilidh was a special occasion.

On the street, Jon could hear music coming from inside the church. It sounded to be the band warming up, a lone fiddle playing out a melody. He felt a small pang of nerves coil in his stomach – Jon had never been one for social events, especially dances. He spared a glance over to Martin next to him. Martin felt Jon’s eyes on him immediately. Thanks to the power of the Beholding, Jon had a pretty intense stare. Martin told him that it sometimes felt like he had walked into a room, and everyone had immediately turned to look at him.

It wasn’t the most comforting thing to hear.

Martin looked to him, and smiled, giving his hand another squeeze, and dissipating the nerves. Slowly, the queue trickled in. There was a man at the door, with a small bucket of coins to the side of him. A paper sign was tacked to the table, reading: Tickets - £2.50.

Martin shoved his hand into his pocket, pulling out a few 50p’s and a handful of pound coins. He smiled to the man, handing over the fee.

“Alright,” said the man, in a heavy highland accent. He counted the coins in his hand, and nodded, smiling at the two. “You have fun now.”

It was louder in the church; with the music, and the excited chattering, it was almost too loud. A small pop up bar had set up shop in the corner of the church, with bottles of wine and beer lined up alongside plastic cups. There were also jugs of water, and juice for the children. Tables were set out, all pushed to the side, and leaving the main floor of the hall free. Most of the tables had been taken up; families lounging on the chairs, chatting to one another and calling over to neighbours and other familiar faces.

It was one of the things Jon loved most about Scotland, and the wee village they had found themselves in. London was hectic, everybody was rushing everywhere, all the time. If you knew your neighbours, it was only because you had had to complain to them too many times about noise control.

Martin led them over to a table. Another couple was already seated there, but it was large enough, and they enthusiastically gestured for them to sit.

“This your first time at one of these?” asked the woman, who Jon remembered seeing at the bakers once – he Knew her name was Kaitlin MacDonald, and he also Knew that there was something living in her basement. He Knew that it stood at the foot of her bed as she tried to sleep.

He cleared his throat, and stared down at the table. He had read a statement before they’d left – neither was keen to risk Jon pulling a live one tonight. Even so, the knowledge that there was _something_ to Know itched at him.

Martin, casting a quick knowing look over to Jon, took the reins on the conversation. “Yeah, we, uh – we saw the flyer. Managed to convince Jon to come along.” He laughed, as did Kaitlin. “It’s not quite his scene.”

“Ach’,” she said, waving her hand. “You’ll have a lovely time tonight - it’s a lot of fun.”

Beside her, Kaitlin’s husband (who Jon Knew was called Alexander) nodded, clapping a hand down on Kaitlin’s shoulder. “Aye, it’s a great wee time. You’ll be sore the morrow, though.”

Martin smiled, giving Jon’s hand a comforting squeeze under the table. A moment passed, and the buzz of feedback sounded. The crowd winced, and the man at the stage grimaced, holding up his hands in apologetic surrender as he approached the mic.

“Good evening,” he announced, earning a few cheers from the crowd. “I hope everybody’s got their dancing shows on tonight, we’ve got quite an evening planned for you lot.”

Pairs were beginning to fumble forward into the centre of the room as the man continued to talk. “Alright, we’re going to start with a simple one – the Gay Gordon. You love it, you hate it; we’re doing it. Does anybody need me to go over the steps?”

Martin shared a look with Jon, a raised eyebrow and amused smile. The crowd were shaking their heads, calling for them to get on with it.

“Right, right – don’t get mad at me if you lot all trip over one another,” said the man, laughing. “Pairs of two everybody.”

“It’ll be fine,” reassured Martin, pulling Jon to his feet, and leading them into the crowd. “How hard can it be?”

Jon looked out across the couples. They were all standing side to side; the tallest standing behind the shortest, holding the shortest one’s right hand in theirs, and left in their left.

“I suppose I have to be the woman,” said Jon, looking up at Martin.

“I feel you might struggle to hold my arms like that,” teased Martin, trying to match their pose with those of the dancers around them. It was a bit fiddly, both getting their lefts confused with their rights. After a bit of twisting, they managed to get into first position.

An accordion began to pull it’s first note, and then they were off. Walk for four, turn around, walk backwards for four – “Oh, god – we’re spinning.”

Martin laughed as Jon’s face went wide. They stumbled slightly, the movement taking Jon by surprise. They knocked into another couple, who just laughed as they did – sharing an understanding grin. Jon fell back against Martin, as they waltzed the next 16 beats.

“Alright, very nice,” said the man, pointing out across the crowd. “Let’s see if we can go a little faster.”

Jon groaned, as the tempo picked up. The dancers were arranged in a circle around the hall, but a few more confident dancers had snuck into the middle, and were enthusiastically spinning and twirling, and throwing themselves into each position, wide, sweaty grins on their faces.

Jon held onto Martin’s hand with a vice like grip, fearing if he let go, he would go flying into the crowd, and trampled under the waltz.

“You doing alright?” asked Martin, as Jon span. Between spins, Jon could see Martin’s face; hot and sweaty already, and wearing a wide smile.

“Terrific,” laughed Jon, as they fell into the waltz. “God, it’s very fast isn’t it?”

Martin just nodded, letting out a breath as he did. They fell back into first position; walk for four beats, turn, walk back for four beats, spin, spin, spin – waltz.

“God, I think I might be having a heart attack,” chuckled Martin. “I guess sitting at a desk, working for a fear entity – spinning you now - yeah, a desk job for a fear god isn’t the best source of exercise.”

Jon laughed. “No, and statements don’t exactly offer any protein.”

Martin huffed, a small smile on his lips. “No, I don’t suppose they’re nutritionally balanced.”

“We should probably look after ourselves better.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying for years!”

Jon’s response was cut off by the song ending. Everybody clapped, cheering on the band. The man at the mic grinned, clapping along with the crowd. “If you want to sit down, don’t bother. Next one’s a slower dance. St Bernard’s Waltz everybody! Pairs of two again.”

There was a minute of folk getting a drink of water, and switching partners. Jon stayed beside Martin, holding his sweaty hand in his own, disgustingly, sweaty hand.

“You good for this one?” checked Martin, gesturing to the circle of dancers that was reforming.

Jon nodded, giving Martin’s hand a squeeze. “Yes, I’m – I am actually enjoying it. You were right, it’s fun.”

Martin blinked. “Sorry, what was that?”

Jon sighed, giving Martin a tired look. Martin’s smiled smugly.

“Just one more time - for posterities sake.”

Jon rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at his lips. “You were right, Martin. There, you got a repeat.”

“Thank you.”

Jon looked out at the first position the dancers were in; just simply holding each other’s hands. “Do you want to take it in turns? Being the, uh – the guy?”

Martin nodded as he looked over the crowd. “Yeah, swap sides with me.”

Martin took Jon’s place, on the right of the circle, and took his hand again. The couple in front of them were chatting, laughing heartily against one another. They were an older couple – and Jon wasn’t sure if he knew or Knew that they lived just off the lane to their cottage. He’d seen them around the area when he and Martin had taken walks along the grassy paths.

“Is everybody ready?” asked the man at the mic. There was a few cheers of yes, and he threw up a thumbs up. “Alright, and a one – and a two – ”

A slow pull on the fiddle opened this number, leading into a slower, but still hearty song. The couples in front and behind of Jon and Martin split to the side – causing the two to quickly stagger to the next position. Stamping sounded, nosily, as all the dancers drummed their feet against the floor in time to the music. They moved back to each other, taking each other’s hand again, before taking another two steps forward – two back – “You’re too tall to spin.”

Martin laughed as he crouched down to twirl under Jon’s arm, as Jon reached up on his tip toes to try and help. “If I knew there would be this much twirling,” said Jon, “I really would’ve said no.”

“Do you want to swap again?” asked Martin, as they fell into another waltz. Jon’s stubbornness kicked in at that question, and he quickly shook his head. “Alright, but I’m not going to get any shorter during this dance.”

“I mean,” said Jon slowly, “There are ways.”

Martin gave Jon a flat look. “I’m not letting Jared bone-turn me, just because your height peaked at twelve.”

“Yeah, yeah,” conceded Jon, reaching up to spin Martin. The dance lasted another few minutes, and by the last minute, the two had become quite competent at it – at least; they had stopped crashing into their neighbours.

When the song ended, Jon’s hands fell to his hips, taking in a long breath of air. “I’m going to get some water; do you want some?”

Martin nodded. “Yeah, cheers.”

There was a wee queue by the drinks table, mainly held up by the man at the forefront who was chatting to the bartender – if you could call him a bartender. Jon felt that title might be slightly pushing it, as he watched the man decant a bottle of wine into a plastic tumbler.

When Jon returned, holding two cups of water, Martin was chatting to Kaitlin again. He smiled warmly at Jon as he returned to his side, taking the cup, and replacing it with a kiss against Jon’s cheek. Jon hid his smile behind his cup as he took a long swig of it.

“I was just asking Martin here,” said Kaitlin, “if it would be alright for me to have the next dance with him?”

Jon blinked, and stayed silent for a moment too long – before realising that she was asking for his permission. “Oh,” he said, “oh – yes, of course.”

He looked over to Martin, checking that it was okay for him to have said yes – and Martin just gave him a wee nod, and smiled, before turning back to Kaitlin. “I should warn you – I’m really quite awful at all of this.”

“Oh, leave off,” she laughed, waving her hand. “Dancing with me, you’ll be a master in no time.”

“I hope so,” said Martin, then to Jon, “You’ll be alright?”

Jon nodded, taking Martin’s cup off of him. “Of course.”

Martin gave Jon’s arm a small squeeze, before taking Kaitlin’s hand and heading into the reformed circle of dancers. Jon took both the glasses to a small table, and sat down. From where he was sitting, he had a good view of the band, and the crowd of couples. The man at the mic re-emerged, and announced that the next dance would be the Military Two-Step.

Jaunty folk music started playing, and the dancers threw themselves into the motions. Jon could see Martin, a slight look of terror on his face as he stumbled from one step to the next – all the while, Kaitlin grinned deviously beside him, chatting him through the steps as they swirled and twirled across the floor.

Martin laughed at something she had said, throwing his head back with the sound, and Jon felt a pang of love twitch in his heart – and an immense feeling of gratitude to be there with him. His face must’ve read his thoughts, as he felt a hand tap him on his shoulder. He turned, to see Alexander, seated beside him. He was lounged on the chair, red in the face, and damp with sweat.

“You two married?” he asked. “He’s a lovely lad - you’re a lucky one.”

Jon hummed, shaking his head. “No, we’re not. He’s just my – ”

Jon paused, struggling to find a succinct word to explain what Martin was to him, and what he was to Martin. He supposed there wasn’t a single word for ‘ex-archival assistant for a fear god, who ran away with me to a secluded cottage in Scotland after confessing his love inside the physical embodiment of loneliness.’

“ – partner,” he settled on. “And yes, I – I suppose I am quite lucky.”

The man chuckled, his eyes crinkling as he did so. “You sure? You two dance like a married couple.”

Jon smiled. “I assumed we were dancing like two clueless Englishmen.”

He nodded. “Aye, that too.” He paused for a moment, looking out across the floor. “You might want to consider getting a ring on him – think my Kaitlin’s quite taken with him.”

“He has that effect on people,” said Jon.

Jon had never taken himself as one for marriage, never seeing the point of the ordeal – if he ever found anyone that wanted to stick with, a piece of paper was hardly going to change that fact. But there were times; moments in bed, lying next to Martin, that the thought would cross his mind – the thought of how nice it would be to guarantee a life with him in the future, a shared name, something concrete and official. Maybe it was just the idea of getting to take control of their relationship, when, up till now, it had all been left to the fate of entities that tried to keep them apart.

It would be a big fuck you to Peter, too.

The song drew to an end, and everybody clapped. Jon saw Martin scan the crowd quickly, before landing on Jon. When he approached, he was flushed red and panting slightly. He fell into the chair beside Jon.

“Good?” asked Jon.

Martin nodded. “Good, yeah.” He let out a small laugh. “No offense, but Kaitlin is a much better dancer than you.”

“I will decidedly not take offense,” said Jon. “Though I’m not sure it’s that high of a bar.”

Jon’s hand was resting on his knee, and Martin’s hand fell atop of his. After the Lonely, both of them took comfort in those small gestures, those gentle reminders of their affection. It was a solid tether to their world. It was a point of focus – a weight that said: ‘I’m here, and you’re not alone anymore’.

It felt odd, a good odd, to be there in that moment. It felt so noticeably normal, and Jon couldn’t help but think about how much they had gone through to achieve this sliver of normalcy. If he squinted, he could pretend that this had always been their lives – pretend that he had realised that he loved Martin sooner, pretended that they had run away together before Peter, and before Jon fell into his role as an Avatar. He could tell himself that they had always gone for hikes on Saturday, and treated themselves to fresh bread on Sundays – and used the left overs to make croutons for soup on Tuesdays. When they curled up by the fire, and chatted over the thundering rain, Jon could lie to himself that this had always been their routine.

“What you thinking about?” asked Martin. Jon blinked, pulling himself back into the moment, and looked over to Martin, with his soft, worried eyes.

Jon shook his head. “Nothing, it was – it was nothing. Don’t worry.”

Martin gave him an unconvincing smile, and a squeeze of his hand. “I’m going to go get some air, come with?”

It wasn’t really a question; but Jon nodded anyway, allowing Martin to lead him back through to the entrance. The air was freezing against their sweaty skin, but delightfully refreshing. Jon took a big gulp, relishing in the icy taste of it against his throat. Martin leant against the brick wall, closing his eyes for a moment, and letting out a long breath. His exhalation turned to steam against the night, and Jon watched it melt away, slowly dissipating into the sky. He fell beside Martin, dropping his head against his shoulder. The two sat in quiet, companionable silence.

They could hear the band start up again, but neither made to move – content to sit this one out, and catch their breaths.

“Thank you for making me come,” said Jon, his voice slightly muffled against Martin’s shoulder. Martin huffed a laugh, his shoulder shaking with the motion. Jon smiled against the feeling of Martin’s laugh rolling through him.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, squeezing Jon’s hand. A beat passed. “I always used to think about doing stuff like this with you. Heh, it’s – this is going to sound cheesy.”

Jon smiled, lifting his head, and pressing a small kiss against the underside of Martin’s jaw. “I won’t judge you.”

Martin faltered for a moment longer, rolling a small smile between his lips. “It’s – it’s better than I could’ve imagined. Actually, uh – actually being here with you, doing this sort of thing.”

Martin turned to face Jon, and Jon took advantage; leaning forward to kiss him, his hand coming up to cup his face. When the kiss broke, Jon held him for a moment longer. “I love you, Martin.”

Martin chuckled, his hand coming up to rest against Jon’s. “I love you, too.”

“Do you want to head back in?”

Martin paused to think. “Let’s wait a moment longer, okay?” 

“Okay.”

Jon’s head fell back against Martin’s shoulder, and Martin brought his arm up around Jon, holding it tight. The two listening to the faded band play out a song that felt too jaunty for the peaceful night air, and felt completely at ease.

**Author's Note:**

> Ceilidh - a Scottish social event, usually dancing - sometimes someone will start reading poetry and then you just have to wait that out  
> Wee - small  
> Drookit - extremely wet, drenched  
> Kilt - it's no a skirt! It's our national dress; usually with the tartan pattern of your clan, or family name  
> Sgian-Dubh - a wee knife that you have on your ankle (usually fake, unless you're a mad lad)  
> Sporran - Kilts don't have pockets, so it's like a wee bag that you wear on your front  
> Aye - yes  
> Lad/laddie - boy, man (lass/lassie is girl/woman)
> 
> The dances mentioned are: Gay Gordons, St. Bernards Waltz, and Military Two Step and the dance they missed at the end was absolutely Strip the Willow - lets fucking go lads!!!!!!!! I miss the rugby boys in my highschool flinging me at a wall during this dance, it's not the same when you don't get knocked out


End file.
